Half

Half-filled journals sit on my shelf. They are full of half-written entries and half-explained ideas. Poetry that was left without rhythm, or stories left on cliff hangers. Each one started out with the best of intentions, full of ideas that I couldn't wait to explore.

Half-filled sketchbooks are hidden under my dresser, in my backpack, and between my books. Each holds half-finished drawings and sketches, art on which I gave up or during which I fizzled out. They too had potential for beauty, to become something of which I could be proud.

The links to posts on this very blog are half black lettering and half gray. The black ones are what you all can see, and the gray ones I see marked as "draft". Those gray posts are all half-written. The text fills half the space that it should and the ideas I tried to explain are left with only half understanding.

Nothing is ever finished or full as it should be. It is left waiting for the second half to finish it that will never come.

I feel that I too have become only half of a person.